usual haunts of news aggregators, reliable publications have all gone suddenly cold in terms of publishing good literature on geopolity, most are swept in the "he said, she said" type of discourse of the usual celebs / politicos while offering shallow level analyses and empty platitudes and ignoring the grand narrative...
maybe it has to do with the incumbent potus, when biden was incharge, people could see that agile groups were taking more and more, and so the commentaries and diplomacy, economics 101 were peddled on a regular basis. With trump incharge, perhaps everyone is being cautious, after all there have never been instances where so much power resided in 1 person and not a group as has been the convention as a sort of checks and balances. Perhaps after this term, we will be flooded with analyses on how to deal with such characters in the future in addition to the usual naked bribe, a trick first invented when the world was divided into the civilised and the barbarian
coming to the article, the person is a sort of chinese philosopher offering his views on the current trends in the chinese society and in particular amongst its younger members, not one I would usually post, but dearth of literature and all that:
https://www.readingthechinadream.com/xu ... tives.html
intro - this interview was taken down by the party soon after
the interview properIt is bleak first because Xu notes sadly that he is speaking at what he sees as the end of an era - the public space that opened in China over the course of reform and opening is now disappearing. This space had allowed Xu and his fellow intellectuals to have their say on some of China’s important issues in the 30-year period preceding Xi Jinping’s rise to power, even if the space existed entirely at the mercy of the Party-State. At present, Xu jokes that he is “unemployed” because his job had been to analyze contemporary Chinese intellectual discourse, and now that Xi Jinping has succeeded in imposing greater ideological discipline there is none.
Xu does not really talk about why the space is closing and even as he mourns the closing of the public space he celebrates the rich private space that has opened up over the past few years, even blessing it was a quotation from one of Mao’s poems: "Chill waves sweep through steep skies/Yet earth's gentle breath grows warm." No one is quiet, he suggests, they are just not loud in public. This “gentle breeze” is China’s new private space, and by quoting Mao, Xu surely wants us to believe that it will ultimately triumph over the “chill waves,” although when the triumph will come and in what form is anyone’s guess.
A second reason Xu’s mood is bleak is that intellectuals like him have been pushed aside by influencers, online media personalities who possess the talent and charisma of stand-up comics and podcast hosts in China and elsewhere. Like Joe Rogan, they are smart and plugged-in and sound relevant, but their goal is to increase their following because volume is the name of the game and with numbers come advertisers and money and fame. Xu admits to dipping his toe in these waters, making short, punchy videos and posting them on popular platforms like Bilibili, but he soon realized that the messages conveyed by this machine have little or no intellectual content in the sense that Xu understands “intellectual,” so he decided that this is not for him. He and those like him will continue to write and talk because that is what they do and because there is a secondary market for them, but he speaks as if a window has closed on an era, in effect acknowledging his growing irrelevance.
This has always been true, to an extent; Xu has long described himself as “neither fish nor fowl,” both a Rawlsian Liberal keenly interested in social justice and a cultural conservative open to some version of Confucianism 2.0. But his discomfort now seems more existential, as Rawlsian Liberals and cultural conservatives have disappeared from China’s cultural scene, leaving Xu with no one to talk to, at least in public. A certain sadness thus accompanies his embrace of the pleasures of private life.
Xu Jilin: As part of the research in which I was engaged at the end of the 1990s, I put together a framework dividing 20th-century Chinese intellectuals into six generations: three pre-1949 generations (the late Qing, the May Fourth, and the post-May Fourth generations) and three post-1949 generations (the "17-Year generation" [1949-1966], Cultural Revolution generation, and reform and opening generation). In Front and Rear Waves, I primarily focused on the pre-1949 generations. However, during my research, I found these generational divisions somewhat oversimplified, so I developed more refined classifications in the new book, which I won’t elaborate on here. Today I’d like to focus on the contemporary era and share an interesting shift in perspective. In the work I published in the 1990s, I considered those born in the 1970s and 1980s - those shaped by reform and opening - as “new types of people,” distinct from the Cultural Revolution generation (roughly my own cohort, those born in the 1940s, 1950s, or even the early 1960s) who were steeped in revolutionary ideology. So at the outset, I saw those born in the 1970s and 1980s as new, but two decades later I have come to realize that they actually represent transitional generations. The true break from revolutionary culture are those born in the 1990s and the 2000s, who are different in [almost] physiological terms.
Those born in the 1950s and 1960s still carry traces of revolutionary culture, and certain idealistic values serve to prop up their lives. Those born in the 1990s and 2000s no longer need such things; they are more secular and prioritize personal happiness and living in the here and now. Those born in the 1970s and 1980s straddle the two, in that we can still see traces of idealism (although less and less) and while they paved the way toward secular lifestyles, they do not yet fully embrace them. So I broadly categorize active contemporary Chinese generations into these three groups: the revolutionary, the transitional, and the live for today.
We can also see this in terms of “front waves” and “rear waves.” Those born in the 1990s and 2000s are fundamentally distinct—both biologically and psychologically—from the revolutionary cohorts born in the 1950s and 1960s. This is my current understanding of these generational divides.
: From this perspective of "front and rear waves," an intriguing phenomenon is that these three generations in China span roughly 20 years each. Biologically, a generation—say, the time it takes for a child to become a parent—typically takes 20 to 30 years. But China’s transformations have been so rapid that even 5 to 10 years can create a psychological and cultural generational divide, so that even people we see as “rear waves” may instead see themselves as “front waves.”
Those born in the 1950s and 1960s experienced the 1980s - an era steeped in idealism - and members of these generations threw themselves into their work with idealistic fervor. Many still harbor nostalgia for this, and romanticize the 1980s as a golden age. Take Gao Xiaosong’s (b. 1969) song about "poetry and distant horizons" for example - a mindset rooted in that era, making him a quintessential idealist. People back then were willing to dedicate themselves to abstract symbols of value. They prioritized collective ideals over personal interests, safeguarding not individual rights but the values of the nation.
In contrast, younger generations today no longer rally around abstract ideals. In the various social movements in which they are engaged, their focus is sharply on specific individual rights. Their goals are limited, tangible, and tied to personal life and interests.
Let me use another metaphor to illustrate the divide. Those born in the 1950s and 1960s are people living in the "polis" (city-state), while those born in the 1990s and 2000s inhabit a "post-polis" world. Last October I went on a study tour to Greece, and viewing China through the lens of Greek philosophy left a profound impression on me. From Socrates to Plato and Aristotle, Greek thinkers tied the meaning of human life to the polis. Aristotle famously declared humans to be city creatures, existing for the sake of the polis and abstract ideals. But by the late Greek period, as the polis declined, philosophies like Epicureanism and cynicism emerged. Epicureanism dismissed the polis as meaningless, asserting that humans live for personal happiness. This marked a radical shift—a decoupling from the polis. Cynicism went further, advocating detachment from societal structures, akin to today’s "lying flat"[4] mentality.
We see similar transformations in today’s China. Those born in the 1950s and 1960s still have the mindset of city creatures. They follow state news broadcasts, discuss geopolitics in chat groups - Russia-Ukraine tensions, the Israel-Palestine conflict, U.S. elections - as if these define their existential purpose and they cannot leave the polis behind. The younger generation, however, is utterly different. They care little for such matters, focusing instead on what directly impacts their lives and immediate selves. They have fully decoupled from the polis, embracing an Epicurean ethos of self-fulfillment, prioritizing personal happiness and well-being.
the above might just be old man yells at clouds type of scenarioI believe there is an inherent historical logic behind this. When an era is in its heyday - such as an empire or city-state in ascendance - people perceive their fate as closely linked to that of the collective. This sense of shared destiny is profound: individuals derive personal benefits from the collective’s prosperity, recognize that its rise or fall directly impacts their lives, and maintain confidence in its future. Think of the characters in the TV drama “Blossoms Shanghai,” (繁花/Fanhua) set in the early 1990s, whose eyes sparkled with expectations and hope - and their expectations were linked to the polis.
Today, that light has dimmed. As the polis declines, people lose sight of a shared future. Today, people are much like intellectuals during the Wei-Jin period (220–420 CE), who embraced Daoism as a way of preserving themselves in troubled times, and elites mimic Wei-Jin scholars in their philosophical escapism. They have cast aside their relations with the polis and care little about its cohesion, nor do they have any expectations for its future. It’s like when the ship is sinking, you jump into the sea and find your own life raft. This is a huge change.
You can see that they are more and more trapped in a lifestyle centered on their own mood. I recently learned a new word while watching the movie “Her Story” (好东西/Hao dongxi) – “situationship.” The best part about this movie is what it shows about changes in intimate relationships. Love is a deep feeling and is binding but young people don’t believe in love and instead are looking for “situationships” that they can take up in the breaks between classes.
In Chinese we might use the term dazi/搭子 (partner) for situationship. Young people look for all kids of partners, partners to chat with, to go to bed with. All of these have instrumental value and are not emotionally binding at any deep level. All they are looking for is mood value, and if it’s not forthcoming they’ll move on to the next partner. They do their utmost to avoid emotional engagements that are binding or exclusive. They prefer this kind of surface, concrete lifestyle, which looks shallow but avoids pain. As Isaiah Berlin put it, they inhabit life’s surface, seeking to be concrete, adaptable, and untethered from the depths.
Question: In your book on intellectuals, you mention the distinctions between urban intellectuals and small-town or provincial intellectuals. When analyzing current trends or differences among younger generations, should the contrasts in mentality and behavior between youth in major cities like Beijing and Shanghai versus those in third- or fourth-tier cities (or even smaller towns) serve as a framework for our analysis?
Xu Jilin: I believe that with the rise of new media the world has become increasingly stratified. People living in same era now inhabit different worlds—not just physical or material worlds, but worlds shaped by ideas and perceptions. In the past, information and ideologies were disseminated hierarchically: mainstream media set the agenda, filtering down to secondary outlets, so as long as you controlled mainstream media you controlled everything. Today, however - especially with the advent of self-media and social platforms - there is no center. Trends and public enthusiasms and excitements emerge unpredictably, avoiding traditional media’s grasp. As a result, the information people access and the worlds they engage with vary drastically.
This divergence stems partly from material conditions in first-tier cities, new first-tier cities, third- or fourth-tier towns, and rural areas. We can see how the influential social platforms have carved this world up: Xiaohongshu (Little Red Book) dominates first- and rising first-tier cities, although WeChat Channels (Video Accounts) are also found here; Douyin (TikTok) thrives in second- and third-tier cities; while Kuaishou is the platform of choice for youth in small towns and villages. Each platform represents a separate universe.
Thus, the urban-rural divide isn’t merely physical. The informational and ideological worlds they inhabit grow further apart, breeding mutual incomprehension. We no longer share a common reality; everyone has their own world. New media hasn’t bridged the gaps—it has deepened them. Conversations between these fragmented worlds increasingly are cases of people talking past one another. (鸡同鸭讲/ji tong ya jiang, lit. “chickens talking with ducks”).
But what’s funny is that everyone believes they see it all. The parable of the blind men and the elephant grows ever more relevant. Everyone is blind but believes what their hands have told them about the elephant. But the elephant itself becomes ever more illusory and only God knows where it is. As people remain trapped within these horizontal and vertical confines, they can only grasp part of the world, and the whole becomes increasingly fragmented and no longer cohesive.
Xu Jilin: There is no longer a true public sphere in China today. Over the past two decades, from the 1980s until the early 21st century, for a period of roughly 30 years, China did have a public sphere. In Habermas’s terms, the essence of a public sphere lies in the open discussion of significant sociopolitical issues. For instance, the 1990s witnessed a four-year debate between Liberals and the New Left, during which nearly all major issues in China were openly debated. However, the public sphere is now dissolving, along with the external conditions that upheld it. Voices once part of public discourse have retreated into private domains, which I call the "private sphere." Today, the public sphere is in decline, while the private sphere thrives. Examples include hobby clubs, book clubs, independent bookstores, academic bars, and group chats.
This decline refers to the erosion of what Habermas called the public sphere, something that began to emerge in the 1980s with the policy of reform and opening, starting with the “ideological emancipation movement” and "culture fever" (often dubbed the "second enlightenment,” the first having been during the May Fourth era), fostering vibrant discussions on major sociopolitical issues. This lively public sphere persisted until around 2010, initially playing out in newspapers and magazines, later shifting online to forums like BBS. Public intellectuals were central to the creation of the public opinion in this sphere.
During this period, public life—particularly civic engagement tied to the polis—flourished, while intellectuals’ private lives remained underdeveloped. Entrepreneurs, busy capitalizing on market opportunities and optimistic about the future, largely stayed out of public debates, creating a divide between intellectuals and business elites. After 2010, however, the public sphere began to collapse due various changes and internal and external factors, including shifts in the media environment and fragmentation among intellectuals, so that the public sphere now no longer exists. Major public debates, so vibrant from the 1980s to 2010, have disappeared.
These groups are unlike traditional communities bound by blood or geography—groups that are natural, “given,” and hard to exit. These resource-based groups allow free entry and exit yet maintain strong internal cohesion. I call them "molecular communities." Alone, individuals struggle against Mao’s "cold currents," but by forming private spheres, they huddle for warmth and mutual encouragement, finding solidarity. Across China, these molecular communities are ubiquitous, yet isolated from one another—tight-knit internally but disconnected externally, some even resembling intimate fellowships.
This trend, absent in the past 30 years, has become pronounced in the last decade. Foreign observers often fixate on the "chill waves" but overlook the "gentle breath" beneath—a dynamic unique to China’s current social landscape.
Looking back at the May Fourth Movement generation, their elders often dismissed the use of the spoken Chinese vernacular, preferring the classical style they valued. The young people wanted to use everyday language in media and fiction, which critics didn’t always approve of—Hu Shi’s 胡适 (1891-1962) vernacular poetry, for example, was criticized. But ultimately, the shift to vernacular language was unstoppable, and history shows it was the right move. Sure, the vernacular had its flaws, but the May Fourth generation still carried forward some traditions, so not everything was lost. It wasn’t a complete rejection of tradition or classical language—many writers produced good poetry in the vernacular, and some of the best classical poetry was preserved. We can’t do that kind of writing anymore, but they could. This tradition was passed down, especially the poetry of the Republican period, which blended vernacular and classical styles. It’s a bit like when Xu Zhimo 徐志摩(1897-1931) wrote Western-style romantic poetry. Every era reinterprets its inheritance, and people born in the 1990s and 2000s are no different.
